Murderer
by Wicked42
Summary: Casey is accused of a murder she may have committed. Walsh x Shraeger - ish.


A/N: So, this is just an idea I had randomly. I don't plan on spending any more time on it, though, so don't get attached. This is probably going to be all you'll get. :P

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**Murderer**

Casey blinks awake in an alley, and the first thing she notices is the hideous sweatshirt she's wearing. Honestly, she's not one for fashion or trends, but this thing looks like its best days were back in the '70s.

The next thing she realizes is that she doesn't remember _buying_ it. Or acquiring it in any way. Or putting it on. Or why she's in a damn _alley_ when she should probably be at the precinct catching bad guys and arguing with Walsh.

_Memory loss_, she realizes belatedly. Even though the alley is grimy and she's literally wedged between two dumpsters, she doesn't move. She stares at the soiled brick of the opposite building and thinks hard.

_Maybe Walsh took me drinking and things got out of hand_? But no, he'd never let her wander off alone in that state, and she's not typically one to drink alone.

Some kind of party? A hoity-toity masquerade with expensive champagne and stifling guests? But she's definitely not dressed for one of those. _Scratch that idea._

She cycles through a few more ideas: a head injury, some kind of drugging, a whirlwind romance with a foreign stranger that took more than a little out of her—maybe she's been reading too many romance novels—or maybe not enough—

_Focus_, she thinks firmly. Her head's spinning, but she pulls herself to her feet and staggers from the alley.

The people of New York barely spare her a glance. She vaguely recognizes her location, but she spends a moment staring at the street signs, trying to decide where, exactly, to go. Home is the obvious choice. The hospital could be another good option. Maybe the precinct.

But instead she stumbles to the subway and rides it all the way to Walsh's place, because in all of Manhattan, _that's _where she feels the safest.

She has Walsh's diner in sight when a portly woman steps in her path, eyes wide. She's holding a shopping bag and has her purse pressed against her stomach, a physical barrier between the two of them.

"You! You're that cop from TV," she exclaims.

Casey is too damn tired for this shit. "I think you have me confused," she says. Her voice is grainy and rough, and she coughs into her shoulder.

The woman is still staring, and Casey frowns when she steps back cautiously. "My husband knows I'm out," she says, voice trembling. "Don't try anything. I'll scream."

"Ma'am, I'm not going to hurt you," Casey replies, rubbing her forehead. _Gotta love the weirdos in New York._ She edges around the woman and heads towards Walsh's diner. This day is definitely the strangest she's had—maybe second, right behind that afternoon in Geneva—and she really just wants answers.

Apparently her partner isn't the best bet after all. She stands outside the diner for a few moments, staring in defeat at the sign hanging behind the glass door. Closed. He only closes the diner at night or when he's working.

Or when he's in a bad mood.

Or a good mood.

Honestly, she's surprised it's _ever_ open.

"Walsh," she yells, banging on the door. The glass rattles, making quite the racket, but he doesn't appear. She pushes her sweaty hair out of her eyes—it's tangled and ratted and dirty, but she'll get to that later. She knocks again.

Nothing. She hears sirens in the distance and some primal instinct tells her to get off the street, to hide, which is ridiculous because she _is_ police. She looks over her shoulder, scanning for the portly woman, but she's alone on Walsh's street.

Maybe she _should_ have gone home.

"Come on, Walsh," she mutters, shifting her weight and hitting the door again.

And thank the Lord, this time, her partner comes strolling around the corner, drying his hair with a towel. His jeans aren't buttoned and his t-shirt could give her jacket a run for its money, but she's never been so happy to see him.

He, on the other hand, looks like he's seen a ghost.

For a moment, he just stares. She huffs and flicks the glass and says, "Care to let me in?" At the words, he walks forward and opens the door, standing back as she pushes inside. She folds her arms and waits for him to close the door, but he's still staring, so she tilts her head. "What?"

"'What?'" he repeats in disbelief. "Casey, where the hell have you been?"

Then he hears the sirens too, definitely getting louder, and he curses and slams the door shut. Without waiting for her reply, he grabs her arm and tows her to his bedroom, nearly throwing her onto the mattress. He zips his pants and drops the towel and grabs his gun, and then he's gone, stalking down the hallway.

A moment later, someone else bangs on the door. Casey creeps to the doorframe to eavesdrop.

"Detective Walsh?" someone asks. An officer by the authoritative tone, but a rookie by the genuine question in his voice. Only a new recruit wouldn't know Walsh.

"I'm in the middle of something," Walsh says.

"Sorry, sir. We've received reports that Casey Shraeger was spotted in the area. That she… uh… maybe came here."

_What?_ It's almost enough for Casey to approach the two of them, to grab this kid for her own interrogation, to get the answers she doesn't have. What happened? Why are the police _looking_ for her? What did she do to warrant that?

Then Walsh says, "You think she'd be that _stupid_? To just waltz into my diner in broad daylight when half the fucking city is looking for her? Come on, kid. Use your damn head."

Casey tucks closer to the doorframe, frowning deeply. He's using his _don't-fuck-with-me _tone, the one that doesn't leave room for questions. She's only heard it a few times, but damn it if he doesn't always get what he wants afterwards.

Sure enough, the rookie hesitates and says, "I'm so sorry, sir. I was just following dispatch's orders. Sorry to have wasted your time."

"Hey," Walsh says before the rookie can leave. "I want you to alert me the _minute_ someone find her, understand? Before the interrogation, before the booking. Just let me talk to her."

He sounds almost defeated, and the rookie seems pleased to be of some help, "Of course, detective. I'll radio you."

"Good," Walsh says, and a moment later the door slams shut.

Then he's rounding the corner, and she almost wishes he'd left with the kid. She can't get his words out of her mind. Seeing his face, confused and concerned and angry, makes her feel very afraid.

"Walsh," she starts, and he stops a foot from her, mouth set in a grim line. She draws a breath. "Something's really fucked up, hasn't it?"

"Understatement," he replies grudgingly, rubbing his forehead. "Shraeger, where have you been?"

She can't remember anything before the alley, and that scares her more than the police officer's statement. She feels small as she admits, "I can't remember."

He studies her with a detective's eye, taking in her torn clothing and missing badge and gun. His eyes settle on her sweatshirt, and he says absently, "It's August." When she doesn't move, he tugs the zipper down and mutters, "Shit."

She looks down and her body goes cold at the sight of the dark brown stains. Blood. "Oh, god," she breathes. In the whole time between the alley and Walsh's diner, she'd never once thought to check underneath the jacket.

She can't tear her eyes away. Nausea churns in the pit of her stomach.

Oh, god.

"That yours?" he asks, brows furrowing in concern. His gaze flickers to her face again, and he puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes to regain her focus. "Casey. Do you need a hospital?"

"N-no," she says. "No, I… I don't think it's mine." She's pretty sure that, by this point, she'd realize if she has a gaping stomach wound. Just to be sure, Walsh lifted her shirt, but there's just light bruising around her abdomen.

He seems more worried about that than she is. She's still hung up on the blood.

"Can you breathe okay?" he asks.

Casey draws a slow breath to show she can. Her stomach aches, a dull throb that she filed away hours ago. Walsh relaxes a bit and leads her into his bedroom, his hand lingering on her lower back until she sits on the bed. Then he scrubs his eyes and stares at the ceiling.

"Okay, okay. What do you remember? Think, Casey. What's the very last thing you remember?"

He's repeating himself, and Walsh never does that. Something's seriously wrong. She feels like she's spent the last few hours hiding in the eye of a hurricane, and the true devastation of the storm is about to turn her life upside-down.

Walsh is waiting impatiently for her reply, so she tries hard to plow through the haze of her memory and find something concrete. It doesn't work well, but she vaguely remembers leaving the precinct after a double-shift.

She tells him that, and he replies, "Shraeger, that was two _days_ ago. You don't remember anything else?"

Casey has started trembling at some point, shaking as she realizes the extent of her memory loss. She looks down at her bloody shirt and recalls Walsh's old friend, Lou, in the same situation. Except this time, she isn't sure Walsh can help.

She isn't even sure she _deserves_ to be helped.

"What happened?" she says, and her voice cracks.

He hesitates, then replies, "A woman was murdered. Young girl, nineteen, sophomore at NYU. Security footage has _you_ dragging her away from an ATM at 0300 Wednesday."

He stops, studying her face, but Casey is staring numbly at her shirt again, so he continues. "Autopsy showed your skin under her fingernails. And you weren't exactly around to contest it, so now you're public enemy number one."

This time, when the nausea rises, Casey barely has time to stumble into Walsh's bathroom before she starts heaving. She doesn't have anything in her stomach to come up, but she coughs and gags and cries, and Walsh pulls up her hair and rubs her back.

"Breathe, Casey," he tells her, his deep voice calm and commanding. "That's it. Easy. Take a breath. Hold, let it out slow. You're okay."

"W-what was h-her name?" she gasps, trying and failing to follow his orders. Disgust wells inside her, devouring her mind and soul. _Murderer_, she thinks. _They think you're a murderer. _

_And what if you are?_

"I don't remember," he lies. He puts a hand on her forehead and says, "You're burning up. Have you had anything to drink lately? Food?"

"Not hungry," she manages to say, but the world is spinning and she can feel the dried blood caked on her shirt and there's a distinct roaring in her ears and then her sight narrows and goes black.

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A/N: Again, I know it reads like a multi-chapter fic, but I promise you, it isn't. It's just a oneshot with a VERY open ending. XD


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